His Master
by Bloody Fox
Summary: He loves his master because he gets exactly what he deserves.


_**His Master**_

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He wasn't drawn for the pleasure of it, though that was there – somewhere, in the back of his head. He was drawn to the pain. It was no less than he deserved for all that he'd done, for all the lies. For all the betrayal. He'd left them there, crying and screaming and pleading. He'd left them, and not once had he looked back. He'd been resolute, still was, but that didn't lessen the punishment.

He arched beneath the man, his master, crying out with the snap of the whip, with the splitting of his skin, with the near-silent splash of his blood as it hit the ground - pooling and collecting on the floor around him. It was the only time he made a sound save for when his master demanded his voice. Which was never, and which he was thankful for because he feared that if he spoke, he would scream for all the horror.

_Perhaps it had started even so far back as second year. It would only make sense. Who falls in love with a monster, after all? No, it was Tom Riddle's good looks that drew him first. Then his voice. Then his charisma, and finally that dark allure that saturated the very air that surrounded him. He was drawn in, like so many others, to him. He'd forgotten all about what crept and lay in wait just beneath the surface._

His master was twisted and cruel, even to those loyal – or maybe, especially to those who were loyal. His master left him on the cold stone floor to pull himself up, despite the state his back was in, despite the amount of blood he had lost and the way his vision swam. Tomorrow would probably be a good day. Whenever his master left him like this, to drown in his sins, his master always ending up indulging him in some way. Not much. Never much.

_The first conscious betrayal... was, perhaps, at that battle in the Ministry. When Sirius had died, gone through the veil, he'd thrown himself as far back into his mind as he could and left rage and madness to reign. When Voldemort slipped inside him later, when he possessed him, when he'd seen Harry's potential... That was the first true betrayal. It is hard to refuse everything when it is offered in such a way, when it's the voice in your head saying that you could have it all... for just a small, tiny price. He didn't refused._

The blood was tacky now, and it clung uncomfortably tight to his skin. He stood, waveringly, and made halting progress to the door, pulling it open slowly. Malfoy was on the opposite side, waiting with a robe dark enough to hide any blood that it soaked up. Draco had changed over the years. He was still haughty and vain and proud, but there had been something about witnessing Harry getting beaten near to death by his master that had cooled Draco's temper. Harry couldn't say that he wasn't grateful. Malfoy pulled the robe over his body, buttoning it so it wouldn't slide off.

_It wasn't a battlefield – or he wished it wasn't – this was a school after all, but this was where everything had truly began. It had only been fitting that it would be where it all ended as well. Those who were able, stood against the Death Eaters with as much force as they could, fighting with any strength that remained. Ron and Hermione weren't at his side. He was alone. Alone in the forest, heading to his death. Alone with the voice in his head that whispered how easy it would be. Just walk away and never look back. They wouldn't know until it was to late, and they hadn't._

Draco escorted him gently to his room. It was a lavish thing, almost gaudy, with all the shimmering jewel encrusted décor and shimmering fabrics. The blond pushed him down onto the bed, peeled away the robe, and reached to the end table. The potion Draco pulled out was smeared over over his back, where the lacerations of muscle and flesh were healed over with a sizzle and left behind tiny, tiny white scars. Neither of them spoke, there was nothing to say. Draco didn't understand, and he couldn't explain it to him.

_The death's of those who stood against Voldemort at Hogwarts were quick and mostly painless. It was merciful, he thought, compared to those who were captured after. Torture was just a word until it was personally witnessed. It lacked impact until there was a sight – a smell – to go with it. The tang of blood, the smell of rot, the way the gore spattered as a human being was degraded so totally that they were less than nothing and objectified. No one understood until they were there. And he was there, at Voldemort's -his master's- side through it all, until something inside finally fractured and he begged to be punished. To serve some kind of penance for all that he'd done._

His master had offered more than once to stop – that he had suffered enough for those fools who had sent him off to martyr himself. Part of him agreed, the other half, the one that loved the silence so that he didn't start screaming, thought that it would never be enough. Today wasn't one of those days. Today was the day that he sat at his master's feet, getting his hair stroked softly. Today was the day that his master finally asked a question that he'd never thought his master would ask.

"Why do you stay by my side, Harry Potter?"

He looked up at his master, caught between solemn and happy. "I love you."

That soft petting stopped, and those bony fingers curled harshly in his dark hair, pulling his head back painfully. "Why?"

"Because you are the only one that gives me exactly what I deserve."

… And maybe, this was the way it was always supposed to be...

..

A/N: Sorry about the first upload. The italics didn't carry over for some reason, and I hadn't realized. I hope the separation helps in understanding. If not... then I can't help you much.


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